


Nostalgia

by beaubete



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: M/M, Who knew?, and the research for this one was fun, apparently the "James Bond Love Glove" is a thing, but not the way you're thinking of, fur kink?, it's just odd, that really exists
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-28
Updated: 2013-03-28
Packaged: 2017-12-06 17:45:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/738382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beaubete/pseuds/beaubete
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Q compares himself to the ladies who came before him; Bond prefers to focus on the here-and-now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nostalgia

“What.”  Q doesn’t even know what he’s trying to say; he lifts the dead thing with two fingers and holds it away from himself.

“What?” Bond asks, distracted.  They’re buried in the old storage room, decades of Q-Branch tech and ancient files of evidence crumbling into dust around them.

“ _Nassau: Thunderball_ ,” Q reads aloud, wincing.  “I don’t know who used to name these missions.  Same man who wrote the code names for the women you met on them, I’d imagine.  _Pussy Galore_ , are you joking?”

“No, her name really was—” Bond says absently, frowning.  “And I thought she was joking, too, when she told me.”

“I’m sure you did,” Q says, laughing.  “That doesn’t explain,” he pauses, searching for the right word before settling on, “—this.  Good lord, Double-oh-seven, just what sort of shenanigans did you get up to?”

Bond finally turns, taking in the grey, matted fur with undisguised delight.  “I’d wondered where that got to!”

“Generally one feeds one’s pets, Mr. Bond,” Q scolds, wrinkling his nose.

“It’s not actually alive, Q,” Bond tells him.

“Certainly not anymore,” Q agrees.

“It’s mink.  A glove, for massages,” Bond explains to Q’s doubtful expression.  “I knew a girl once who quite appreciated it.”

“Did she?” Q asks, voice cool.  He’s not going to let himself be jealous of girls with names like Domino and Solitaire, but it catches him off-guard sometimes.  He lets himself smile ruefully.  “Looks like the mitt I use to wipe dust from the vents to me.”

“Cost a damned sight more.  The things I used to waste money on,” Bond says, reaching over to take it.  “Even so, this thing…it used to be something.”  He sounds wistful for a moment, and Q turns, watching him stroke the ruined pile with a fingertip.

“Really?  I can’t see the appeal, myself,” Q admits, watching Bond try to tap the dust out of it.  It sets off clouds like spores, choking them; when the haze lifts, Bond can’t quite hide the disappointed pucker of his brow.

“It’s a sensory thing—when you rubbed it one way it was smooth, but the other it scratched.  Very distracting, but pleasant,” Bond says, and oh.  Q can see him thinking about it, almost see the pleasant memories forming in his mind.  It’s something Bond likes—really likes—and Q bites his lip.  The rest of the boxes are full of odds and ends—he finds a crushed hat with a metal rim that bites into the fleshy pad of his thumb, and Bond pulls out a shattered pair of glasses with a fond, if lecherous, look—but he spends the rest of the day imagining sleek fur.

It takes a week for it to arrive, and the price is absolutely outrageous: two hundred fifty pounds for what is essentially a skinned woodland creature emptied and reshaped to fit his hand.  He wasn’t lying—he still doesn’t see the appeal—but he’s interested in the expression that had been on Bond’s face as he remembered the other glove.  It’s got a dusky, oiled smell to it that he’s not sure he appreciates, but he tucks it under the pillow all the same to wait.  He has Bond over for dinner and drinks, and from the hot feel of Bond’s eyes on his arse, they both have some idea of what’s happening later.

They fall into bed as a matter of course, two bottles of wine into the evening.  Bond is distracted with his shoes and Q is just drunk enough to set his inhibitions aside; when he swipes the mitt along Bond’s ribs, Bond makes a sharp, startled sound and turns to face him suspiciously.  Q holds the scrap of fur in front of himself defensively.

“I thought you’d—” he says, stopping to bite his lip. 

“Oh,” Bond breathes, smile dawning across his face slow and radiant.  “Q.”

Bond shimmies out of his suit faster than Q had thought possible; he’s sitting on the bed like an enthusiastic child as Q slowly works his way out of his own clothes.  He even folds his trousers in an effort to delay the inevitable, and by the time he makes it back to the bed Bond is idly stroking the mitt over his own arms, delighted.

“Lie down,” Bond instructs.  Q glances at him warily.  He lies back against the pillows and watches Bond pull on the mitt.  The first few swipes up the length of his calves are uninspiring, but when Bond turns it back—tingles jerk across his skin, muscles twitching.  It’s not much, really; he’s not sure why it affects him, but Bond just grins.  Smooth, smooth, rough, Bond circles the glove and pets him carefully.  He takes the mitt along Q’s abdomen and they both watch it leap.  When he smoothes the fur over a nipple they both lose their breath.

“Why does it—?” Q asks, peering down his body to watch Bond idly stroke him.

“The mink has two lengths of hair.  The top is smooth and soft.  When I rub with the grain, all you feel is sleek, fine fur.  The layer underneath, the short layer, is coarse and dense.  Going backwards exposes it and you get the sensation of the rougher hair against your skin.  The beauty of them both is in never knowing which you’ll feel,” Bond tells him, illustrating his point with a quick backwards stroke against his navel.

“It’s unusual,” Q offers, breath hitching as Bond trails the glove closer to his cock.  At the last moment, it dips along his inner thigh instead; Q doesn’t know if he’s pleased or annoyed.  He settles for both, and Bond laughs at the expression on his face.

“Turn over,” Bond commands, and Q lets himself be manhandled into a new position on his belly.  Bond starts the glove on his shoulders, teasing sensitive circles along the skin.  Q shivers and Bond makes a soft, pleased sound.  “I could do this for hours,” Bond confesses, drawing the glove across the line of his shoulders gently.  Q hums in agreement; it’s more pleasant than he’d figured for, actually, soothing in a way that he’s not used to.  Bond moves his hand in unpredictable ways, tracing it down across his ribs and back up again.  The mitt dips down the back of his thigh and Q bites back the moan that threatens to escape.

“I might not let you get away with hours,” Q warns, shifting on the bed to arch into the petting. 

“Let me?” Bond asks, amused.  He picks up Q’s wrist; it falls limply to the bed.  “You’d be hard-pressed to stop me.  You’re like a cat being scratched.”  Q grins, offering a throaty purr.

“Don’t you dare make a joke about me being hungry for milk,” Q warns mildly, and Bond’s hand stops against his skin, restarting slowly.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, darling,” Bond says, face a portrait of wounded innocence when Q cracks an eye—he’s not sure when they closed, but the nosepieces are digging in to the bridge of his nose and he takes a moment to set them on the bedside table; he may be blind now, but it only helps the experience—to blink at him skeptically.

“I’ve read the letters to Mayfair you disguised as mission reports: fully of snappy comebacks and zingers,” Q tells him disapprovingly.  “You may think they’re clever—”

“I think sex should be fun,” Bond protests, silencing Q’s acerbic tongue with his own.  Q’s moan is muffled as Bond sinks down from above, covering his body with his own, but Bond rewards him with a sharp nip to his lower lip.  “Not everything’s a matter of life or death, Quartermaster.  And sometimes even when it is, it can still be playful.”

“You’d know,” Q manages.  Bond pulls away with a frown.

“Don’t let’s do that,” Bond asks, trailing gentle bites down the side of his throat to the nape of his neck.  “I’ve seen a lot, done a lot.  That’s not important.  I’m here with you right now, and you bought me _this_.”  Bond swats at him with the mitt, placing a firm bite square between his shoulder blades.  “You’re the one I want to be with today, Q.”

Q nods grudgingly, sinking into the mattress with a soft sigh as Bond strokes over him again.  “You’d better not ruin it, Bond,” Q warns, words more biting than his voice.  “It was bloody expensive.”

“Then let me thank you properly,” Bond says, and oh.  The sensation is absolutely alien, the glove sweeping between his legs.  It tickles at his arse, ghosting over the perineum to brush at the back of his balls in a tease; Q lets his legs fall open but fights the instinct to cant his hips back into the touch.

“That’s a very good start, Mr. Bond,” Q tells the pillow in his arms, eyes squeezing shut.

“I know how to make it better.  On your back,” Bond tells him, guiding Q’s hip with a hot hand until he’s lying on the bed, erection bared between them.  He jumps when the mitt touches his ribs again, then his breath escapes in one low-voiced rush when it crosses his belly to rest on his hip.  His cock bobs.  So does his adam’s apple; Q’s throat makes a gulping sound when he tries to suck in breath.  Bond smiles, curls with him, and breathes into Q’s open mouth, not quite a kiss but too intimate to be anything else.  “All right there, Quartermaster?” he asks.  Q closes his eyes and nods.

The first brush is feather-light.  It’s sleek, watery, and warm against Q’s cock.  He mouths at Bond’s lips with his eyes shut tight until Bond takes the kiss, his tongue hot and thick and wet against his as he presses the kiss deep and Q’s head sinks into the pillows.  Bond kisses him hard, hungry, and Q’s fingers tangle blind behind Bond’s head, pulling him closer.  The mitt scrapes its way back down the sensitive skin and Q surges, arms shaking.  He doesn’t know what to do with his hands.

Bond is hard against his hip, firm and damp in his pants as he drives himself into Q’s skin.  His free hand curls in Q’s hair, pulling strands loose; Q lets him, only breaking the kiss for more air.  “Don’t,” he pleads when Bond strokes him again, and Bond pauses, “—don’t finish me this way.  I want—”

Bond’s eyes drop the length of their torsos to watch Q’s cock, flushed and ruddy, disappearing and reappearing in the mitt.  His voice is low, broken, when he finally cobbles the words together: “It’s okay, Q.  I know what you want.”

The strain in his thighs is gorgeous when Bond lifts him, resting his knees on his shoulders and neatly folding him against his body.  There’s lube, a condom, some prodding before he arches against Bond’s chest and begs.  Bond takes it slow, just as torturous as he was with the glove, and Q begins to see the appeal—really see it and feel it, too, in the sparks that light behind his eyes and burn in his muscles.  Bond is firm, steady as he drives into Q’s body until Q’s clutching at him, clawing with short nails and skin still tingling all over.  He’s further gone than he’d expected to be; he comes between them nearly silent, breath catching in a silent shout that makes Bond shudder against him.  When he opens his eyes, everything’s starry and faded; his hearing blurs back in with the heavy sound of Bond’s breath as he fucks him through it.  His cock makes a vaguely interested twitch when Bond finally screws his face up and comes, but he’s tired, relaxed and fucked-out in a way that he rarely is.  Bond stumbles back from disposing of the condom to find him toying with the mitt against his chest.

“Told you it was something, didn’t I?” Bond asks, nudging him over on the bed.

“When it’s in the right hands,” Q concedes, and Bond laughs.

“That one’s worse than any of the ones I ever turned in,” Bond tells him, taking the mitt to stroke it across Q’s skin delicately.

“I thought it was pretty decent, considering how much of my brain is pooled elsewhere.  Now I just need a ridiculous code name.”

“Oh?  How about Rod Ryder?” Bond suggests.

“Absolutely not.”

“Harry Prettybottom?”

“Bond.”

“Dickie Charming.”

“Bond, I will hurt you….”


End file.
